Prologue, Part 2

Two months later, I am on preceptorship in rural Kansas when news finally reaches me about the test results. A preceptorship is basically an unpaid externship lasting three weeks in which the veterinary student leaves the campus to a destination of their choosing to acquire additional educational experience. Most are set up with private practices where the students are allowed to observe and assist veterinarians in the field. A few students choose to attend hospital rounds at other universities or specialty practices around the country. I have had three preceptorships, all in mixed-animal, private practices in rural communities. One was in Siloam Springs, AR, one in Elgin, OK, and the last here in the pancake-flat, wheat field and cattle feedlot country of north-central Kansas.

I have mixed emotions about the last three weeks. This is by far the most time that Emily and I have been apart since we have been married. I’m not the most talkative person in the world in the first place and conversations over the phone aren’t any better. The practice I am preceptoring at is not very busy this time of year and the majority of the past three weeks has been spent vaccinating the calves that were born last spring for Blackleg, Leptospirosis, and Brucellosis. Heifer calves that are vaccinated for Brucellosis are required to be tattooed in their right ear with a symbol identifying them as having been vaccinated and my hands seem to be permanently stained green with tattoo ink.

One memorable experience came when I was learning to castrate bull calves to make them into steers for the feedlots. A local rancher hauled in a load of ten yearling bull calves to be castrated and then left to pick up another load. Dr. Gibson showed me how to slice the bottom of the scrotum away, break down the cremaster muscle to seperate it from the spermatic chords, and clamp and sever the chords with an emasculator tool. He watched me castrate a few head and then had to leave on an ambulatory call away from the clinic as I finished the rest of the pen. I castrated the fifth or sixth bull in the pen exactly as I had the ones preceding it, and was in the process of giving it an injection of penicillin to prevent infection, when I heard what sounded like a fountain of water hitting a cement floor. Fearing the worst, I walked to the back of the squeeze chute that was restraining the steer and discovered to my horror that a large amount of blood was pouring from between the animal’s legs.

Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap! What the hell am I supposed to do with this? I did this one just like all the rest, why is this sucker bleeding like a stuck hog? Son of a gun, what do I do now?

There was no one around to ask for advice. Dr. Gibson wouldn’t be back for at least an hour. So I grabbed the emasculator, a stainless steel implement that is designed to crush and clamp the blood vessels running through the chords that attach the testicles to the body, in theory preventing the hemorrhaging that was taking place before my eyes. I knew I had applied it correctly when I castrated the steer in the first place, but it was the only thing at hand to apply to the bleeding vessels. With one hand I reached up into the open end of the truncated scrotum and grabbed a handful of bleeding tissue while I used the other hand to apply the tool. And then I held it there for a very long time as sweat ran down my face and curse words spewed forth with colorful variety. When I finally felt like it had been long enough, I mentally crossed my fingers and removed the tool. The fountain of blood had slowed to a mere trickle. Breathing just a bit easier, I watched it for a full minute and when no additional bleeding was evident, I eased the animal out of the chute as gently as I could and watched it walk all the way back into the holding pen. Taking careful note of its appearance so I could check on it later, I went back and finished castrating the remaining animals without incident. When I checked on the steer at the end of the job, it was still holding up well, so I finally breathed a sigh of relief. When Dr. Gibson returned, I told him of the experience.

“Oh, yeah, you’ll have a bleeder or two like that occasionally when you’re cutting calves,” he replied nonchalantly. “‘Specially when they wait until they’re yearlings and have some size to ‘em before they bring ‘em in. Sometimes you have to stitch up the bottom of their sack to stop the bleeding.”

Well, that would have been helpful to know beforehand!

So, from this experience I learned both how to castrate calves and how to handle the potential complication of excessive post-operative hemorrhaging. Unfortunately, the rest of the preceptorship has been pretty slow and I did not get the opportunity for very much hands-on experience. So I am in the process of packing my bags and preparing for the long drive back to Oklahoma when I get a call from Shalyn that the results of the National Board Exam have been reported to the state licensing office. With trembling hands I call the number. My voice shakes as I give them my name and ID number. I can’t even breathe as they enter my information, and finally, after what seems like an eternity has passed, I get my answer.

“Congratulations Mr. Carpenter, you passed.” The receptionist replies. “An eighty two percent.”

Oh thank you, God! Glory be, Hallelujah! I can’t believe it. I passed. I passed. I actually passed.

The breath I’ve been holding escapes in a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you, ma’am. You don’t realize it, but that’s the best news that I’ve heard in a month.”

I’m too excited to sit still. I pace back and forth outside of the house that I have been staying at for the past three weeks, eyes filled with tears of relief.

I can’t believe I passed. I don’t have to retake that horrible test. And an 82%. I only needed a 70 to pass. Hell, that’s a B. I knew that I had flunked it and I really made a B.

I recall a line from the Adam Sandler movie, Billy Madison. Hurrah for school! Hurrah for me!

I call my wife, my parents, my friends.

This is it! All I have to do now is finish the rest of the year at the Teaching Hospital and graduate and I’ll be a vet. I’ve wanted this since I was nine years old and I’ve done it!